So…I feel that it’s time for a metaphor.
I was going to make this a broccoli vs. chocolate metaphor, but I usually reserve that for a different comparison. Instead, may I present you with this showdown:
| PEACHES | vs. | ICE CREAM | |
| · local · ripe · juicy · healthy · delicious | · addictive · delectable · SO bad for someone who is “lactase enzyme-challenged” AND needs no more empty calories in her life | ||
Let’s say that for the past…five years or so, I’ve been striving – with moderate success – to cut out of my life “empty calories” in all the forms that concept can take. Por ejemplo: things that take up time and distract me, but aren’t soul-nourishing. Activities/behaviors that take care of other people but at my own expense. Things that give a great rush but have poor effects afterwards (oh, coffee, coffee: how I miss thee). People who maybe are [were] fun [especially when you add alcohol] but who are not, in fact, GOOD for me. So now I live kind of like a nun. Life feels very calm, and very safe, but kind of…convent-like. [It should be noted here that there are also many, many people I don’t get to spend much time with anymore – NOT because they are bad for me, but because in my five years of doing prereqs/grad school, I got out of the habit of staying in touch. This is something I would like to change in the other direction, but it’s a different issue than the one requiring my metaphors. So if you’re reading this, and I haven’t called you in a year, it’s NOT because you give me cavities. Really.]
ANYWAY. So say that I KNOW that peaches are really good for me. And let me tell you, I have realized in the past week that peaches – in season, local – are my absolute favorite fruit of all. And I love many kinds of fruit, so that’s saying a lot. So let’s say that I have been – and here we begin to stretch the metaphor – saving myself ALL year for some really good, healthy, local peaches. That will nourish my body and palate. But before I can find the good peaches…here comes the pint of ice cream. It knocks at my door. It takes off its own lid. It hovers right around my mouth. It hands me a spoon. Hoo boy.
With all my effort, I summon my knowledge of what I want in my life, and for my nourishment. I want peaches. I love peaches. I truly believe that there is at least one peach waiting for me – The Right Peach. A peach who – for example – has a sense of humor, loves animals and wants children (little apricots!), is smart and thoughtful and loving and gentle and loves to romp in nature and read books endlessly and sing rounds and harmonies, and is, also, a nice-looking peach. But I’m not actively looking for the peach; I’m taking the “universe shall deliver” approach. (I also happen to be rather stupidly but hopelessly fond of an amazingly divine peach that already belongs to someone else’s tree. That’s a different posting. Ooh, but it’s probably pertinent.) There are a couple of potential (unattached?) peaches, but one is soon to be shipped to a far away country, and another one appears to spend its entire fruithood in various Pursuits Of The Mind, if it even had ever noticed me walking past the fruit aisle and eyeing it. Yet another one is awfully cute, but not even remotely ripe enough. So here I am, waiting for a peach to drop in my lap, but in the meantime: I’M GETTING HUNGRY.
Oh, look! – here comes Ben & Jerry’s “Phish Food.” Wearing a black leather jacket. Riding a motorcycle. With a whole bunch of freakin’ TATTOOS on its…container. REALLY bad for me. I don’t think they could cram more sugar in there if they used a shovel. (Did I mention the lactose intolerance?) But that pint of ice cream wants me to eat it. It is completely available. It is ready to romp. Even though many different people have dipped their spoons into that pint, so one wonders about its sanitary status. Especially when one is mildly germaphobic and extremely disease-phobic. But those creamy marshmallow swirls. And those fudgy fish pieces.
And I am in a somewhat vulnerable place, given a) how long I’ve been waiting and b) the unfortunate reality that part of me wonders if a peach would really ever want to come sit in my messy, imperfect fruit bowl. As it were.
And I think my point is that at times it seems like an obvious, easy choice, and I’m able to go without the ice cream while looking forward to the peach I’ll have in the morning. But at other times…Sister Mary Kate leaps out the window and gets replaced by…an ice cream-eating humpback whale. Or T-rex. Something ravenous with big teeth, a large stomach, and not so much brain.
And there are some dear folks who love me, and want me to be happy, and think that I spend too much time with the guilt and repression, and they think I should just eat the ice cream, for God’s sake, because life is short. Even just a spoonful. But – I always go whole hog. And there are always – ALWAYS – unpleasant consequences. No matter how many fistfuls of Lactaid are involved.
Gosh, yes, joining a group of some sort might be a good idea. And – per my bestest friend – finding a way to release my energy does work (**partner acrobatics** – or anything using my body, if I could force myself to go running or swimming or to yoga again). And it’s not that one couldn’t somehow have a combination. Let’s say, a delicious peach sorbet – dairy-free, with peaches from my dear friend Kira’s tree, fruit juice-sweetened, and eaten slowly. But there’s something about full-on ICE CREAM that gives one a buzz and also obliterates. In a good/bad way.
So here I sit.
Trying very hard – on a daily basis – not to buy the ice cream. Both literally and metaphorically.
Sigh…
